


Break

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin goes over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

"Who's Christine?"

"Who?"

"Christine."

There've been ten or twenty women named Christine.  None of them  
were important enough for him to remember their faces.  "I'm sorry.    
I don't.  I mean, there isn't one that I can think of who you'd ask  
about that way."

"And the ones who aren't?"

"I've.  Met a lot of women."  Some of them with bone-breaking force.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

"I really don't.  And I mean that in a completely meaningless, no  
tingling spider-sense kind of way."

The Spider-shrink makes a note, in a way that means there'll  
probably be a question about anonymous, dangerous women either  
tomorrow or the next day.

"You've been repeating the name in your sleep.  I've had a half-  
dozen notes from nurses about it."

"I didn't think y'all had me on suicide watch or anything."

"They check on you in the night, sometimes.  You've inspired a lot  
of protectiveness in the staff."

This is true.  Obvious, even.  The girl who brings him lunch  
remembers that he likes red jell-o, and he gets it when every other  
tray on her cart has green.  The big male nurse who gives him  
sedative shots rubs his shoulders sometimes in a surprisingly non-  
sexual way.  When he watches TV, on the vinyl couch with a donated  
afghan around his shoulders, patients creep up to him and pat him on  
the head.

"And I said 'Christine'?  All I can think of is an evil car and that  
girl in The Phantom of the Opera."

"You've seen it?"

"In London last year.  In New York three years ago.  In Orlando when  
I was a kid."  It's just the smallest throat-twist to force his  
voice into falsetto.  "Christine!  It's all a ploy to help  
Christine!  I know who sent this: the Viscomte, her lover!  Can you  
believe this?"  Singing, watching the shrink's face change while he  
does it.  He's writing frantically.  "Fuck.  I take it all back.    
Please don't make it so I'm a nutcase obsessed with Phantom.  I  
don't wanna die with that around my neck."

"You're not going to die."

"I know.  I keep telling you."

  
*

  
His file, which he's seen, because if he asks, people will do  
anything for him, says:

name: Harless, Randall J.  [scribbled: James?  Jeremy?  Jason?]

birthdate: 01/31/81

admitted: 06/06/02

condition: alcohol poisoning/narcotics overdose  
ruled accidental [scribbled: psych. says maybe/maybe not]  
4 days detox  
psych evaluation to follow, possible commitment based on mental  
competence assessment, substance abuse rehab.

notes:  
caucasian male  
6'0"  
160 lbs  
eyes - blue / hair - brown

  
There's a psych file, too, but he hasn't seen it.  He can guess  
what's in it, because a lot of what goes in it gets written down in  
front of him.

  
*

  
"Who's Chris?"

Kirkpatrick.  Weird, funny, aging fuckhead.  Why do you ask?  "Why  
ask?"

"I've been asking you since yesterday."

"Yesterday you asked about Christine. Evil car or opera singer with  
a scary-ass stalker."

"In your sleep, you say 'Chris'.  And 'momma,' but I find that  
rather more explicable."

"Chris isn't Christine, it's Christopher."  He imagines some kind of  
sick love-child of the two, a pixie-faced son of Satan in a stage-  
wig and too-expensive dress, screeching about a magical singing  
tutor.

"Ah.  I didn't realize you were homosexual."

"What?  Fuck.  I'm not."

"That was hostile."

"I'm not fucking gay."

"You don't like the suggestion that you might be."

"I really, really don't.  Have you got any idea how fucking many  
times I've been told I fucking am?"

"One might presume that if the suggestion continues, then it has  
some basis in fact."

"Or I could be talking about a bunch of jocks in high school calling  
me 'faggot' because they don't like my hair."

"I don't think we are.  And you don't have any hair to speak of."

"I used to.  And I didn't go to high school."

"So presumably it's those who know you who keep suggesting that  
you're homosexual."

"People who've never fucking *met* me 'suggest' it."

"You're getting very hostile, Randall.  Sit down, please."

"Do you think I am?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Chris could be my brother."

"I don't think you have brothers."

"That so?"

"It's an educated guess.  You seem to expect undivided attention."

"I have more brothers than you can possibly imagine.  Two real ones  
and four extra ones."

"Why won't you give us contact information for your family?"

"Have you ever actually *seen* hell break loose?"

"They're hostile."

"I'm hostile.  You keep telling me.  They're fucking fabulous.  I  
love them."

"But you won't tell them where you are."

"We're talking probably fifty people showing up here."

"What about Chris?"

"I don't think he could just disappear and get here.  I can't  
believe I did."

Spider-shrink looks very, very serious.  "Randall, how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-one."

"Are you supposed to be in school?"

"No."

"Institutionalized?"

"No."

"Are you supposed to be in jail?"

"Would I tell you if I was?"  He can't remember if it's winter.    
There's very bright light, as if it's reflecting, and he knows he's  
too far north and too far inland for the light to be reflecting off  
the ocean, so it should be snow.  It's always cold in the hospital,  
but it smells like air conditioning.  He buries himself under  
blankets whenever he sleeps and pretends he's not cold.  "Can I go  
outside?"

"You're in a secure wing.  You could make the request, though."

This is going nowhere.  Make Spider-shrink crazy and he'll go away.    
"I got to spend the day in a rubber room, once."

"Oh?"  Arched eyebrows.  He's interested, which makes sense since  
there aren't any records of him here.  Or, well.  Basic health, he  
thinks.  Nothing psychiatric.

"Me, four other guys, two cameramen, a director trying to figure out  
how to get our clothes off."

"I know you know how pornographic that sounds."

"It really, really was."

  
*

  
"I think you enjoy these sessions entirely too much, Randall."

"Yeah?"

"You love attention."

"That isn't even news."

"Do me a favour.  Tell me why the hell you think you deserve it."

"Every girl under twenty in this country is in love with me."

"Delusional, manic, narcissistic tendencies..."

"You think I'm joking."

"I'm getting ready to ask if you hear voices."

"I hear yours."

"I don't think you do, but I'm only a curious psychiatrist, so I  
suppose it doesn't matter."  He smiles.  Viciously.  People used to  
beat this guy up when he was a kid, and he's mean because of it.    
The way Chris is, but Spider-shrink doesn't love him the way Chris  
does.  "I really am only here because I think you may actually be  
the craziest person I've ever met."

"I'm glad you're not my real doctor, because I'm really, really not.    
I had a bad night, I drank too much, I snorted a couple of things I  
shouldn't have, I ended up in detox and they sent me here.  Do you  
have kids?"

"I have two."

"Girls?"

"One."

"How old?"

"Ten."

"Ask her who I am."

  
*

  
"In spite of everything I've observed, I have a spate of test  
results in front of me which say you're not schizophrenic."

"Who did your daughter tell you I am?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Chris was my first.  I was sixteen.  He was twenty-five.  It was in  
Utah.  We made a list, after, of the laws we broke.  It was really  
long."

"My daughter thinks you're a rock star.  Hypothetically."

"I stripped naked and crawled into his lap and kissed him til he  
fucked me.  I used to let him tie me up."

"I'm sure you watch The Simpsons.  You remind me of the fat white  
man who thinks he's Michael Jackson."

"I'm not going to be Michael Jackson for another ten years, at  
least."

  
*

  
"Did Chris molest you?"  This new evil is not Spider-shrink, not  
even in disguise.  She's a woman, for one thing.  And she wears  
soft, pastel clothes and makes sympathetic faces and everything  
about her screams 'Rape Counsellor'.

"Legally, yes."

"Will you give us his full name?  Everything you've told us suggests  
that we're within the statue of limitations."

"You want to *charge* him?"

"You might find it very cleansing."

"Chris didn't molest me."

"You said he did."

"I said he legally did.  Because I was sixteen."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I love him."

"I'm sure you did.  You'd be very confused, particularly if he was  
in a position of authority."

"Would it help if I told you I don't think I'm actually from the  
same planet as you are?"

"I want to help you."

"Fuck off and let me talk to Spider-shrink.  The guy with the  
moustache."

"I think you're suffering."

"I'm not.  I like my life.  I just need some quiet time."

"You tried to kill yourself."

"I really didn't.  I just got really wasted.  It was perfectly  
legal.  Not the smack, but everything else."

She looks worried.  He decides to sing "Rocket Man" until she goes  
away.

  
*

  
"My daughter spends a lot of time trying to convince me that I'm  
keeping a rock star prisoner.  And I think the words 'prince in a  
tower' came up a couple of times.  We both know you're charismatic,  
but I'm baffled by how you've seduced my preadolescent daughter  
without ever meeting her."

"I'm a pretty baby."

"Remarks like that, combined with the fact that you suck your thumb  
when you're thinking, keep leading me back to some sort of sexual  
misconduct."

"All over the world, breaking many laws along the way."

"Are you still asserting that you weren't molested?"

"Not the way you mean."

"Were you a prostitute?"

"Best-paid one in the world, probably."

"Randall, I need to know if you're being serious."

"I'm being -- whatthefuck -- metaphorical.  The going rate for sex  
with me is sixty-three ninety, plus whatever Ticketmaster charges."

"We're back to the rock star thing."

"Who does your daughter think I am?"

"She thinks you're a singer."

"Who?"

"Justin Timberlake."

"You can call Chris.  He's 2 on my speed-dial.  I think they took  
the cell off me when I was admitted."

  
*

  
"J, if you were gonna go crazy, you coulda done it in Los Angeles.    
At least there the rehab joints have lawns."

Chris smells the way he always smells.  Sharp, too-cheap cologne  
that he hasn't changed since Justin was a kid.  Hair gel, cigarette  
smoke, pot.  Fruit juice that he had for breakfast.  He looks like  
hell, like he forgot his Dramamine.  He shouted about midnight  
flights to fucking Cincinatti for a minute or two after he came in.  

"You are way too fucking huge to be sitting in my lap."

"You were supposed to come and find me."

"You crawled up your own ass in *Ohio*.  What the fuck is in Ohio?"

. . .

"Fine.  Suck on your fingers.  See if I care."

Chris curls around him, eventually.  Scratches Justin's growing-in  
hair.  The shopping bag he carried in has burgundy pyjamas in it.

  
*

  
"We won't discharge him."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because he's unstable."

"He's an aging child star whose ex-girlfriend is suing him, he had a  
bad week, he got wasted and ended up in detox."

"I think he's the most traumatized individual I've ever treated.  I  
thought at first he must be schizophrenic.  And I still haven't  
ruled out sexual abuse."

Justin's supposed to be asleep.  There are so many sedatives in his  
bloodstream that he doesn't think he'll ever wake up again, but he's  
drifting close enough to the surface to be able to hear and process.    
Chris is massaging his scalp absently.

"Fuck.  Do you know who?"

"You."

And that.  Is cartilage imploding.  It's probably a good thing  
they're in a hospital already.  There's something warm dripping on  
Justin's arm which is probably blood, and his favouritest shrink in  
the whole wide world is swearing pretty loudly.  Chris kisses  
Justin's temple and rubs the back of his neck.

  
*

  
Sometime later, it's just him and Chris in this too-bright, too-cold  
room, curled up in Justin's collection of hospital blankets.  The  
hospital pajamas are gone, at least, and he's warmer in the new  
ones.  Raw silk or some kind of really slick, fine wool, like an  
expensive suit.  Chris has one arm around his stomach, holding him  
down.

"You've always been a sex crime looking for a place to happen.    
Bastard made me think of everybody who used to touch you, when we  
were getting started.  Fuck, you were such a baby.  And you damn  
well *knew* you were pretty, and you kept playing it like you  
thought it wasn't dangerous.  You know I used to stalk you just to  
make sure nobody was holding you down when you went to the can.

"You know your mom used to call me and make me promise to take care  
of you?"

"Yeah."

"You're awake."

"Green."

"Or not.  Fine.  We're gonna have to re-detox you when I get you out  
of here."  Yes.  Somewhere he can sleep with his shirt off and not  
be cold.  All the big windows in his house raining Florida sun down  
on him.  Orange trees.  No snow.  Chris curled up behind him on his  
bed.  He remembers when his brain worked.

The male nurse with the needle comes in.  Chris sits up and talks to  
him.  The words that break through Justin's brain have to do with  
"junkie" and "not even awake, for fuck's sake."

"It's prescribed.  I'm not the doctor; I don't get to make judgement  
calls."

"Has he been committed?"

"I don't think so."

"Then he has the right to refuse medication."

"He's not awake.  You don't have the right to refuse it for him.  I  
*know* that."

"He's not awake.  Which means he can't decide.  And if you make the  
decision for him, I will hit this place with the biggest fucking  
lawsuit it's ever seen."

"I'll talk to the doctor on duty."

Big fingers slide across Justin's scalp, and he can sort of remember  
how much he likes this guy.  Big and protective of him.  Friendly.    
How he used to be a kid, and Chris wasn't, and he was like armour  
against shitstorms.

  
*

  
"How do you feel?"

It's dark.  He can't remember the last time it was dark.  They were  
keeping lights on him all the time.  "Sorta blurry."

"Yeah, you're detoxing, so.  Yeah.  I don't know what the fuck they  
were thinking, shoving drugs into a kid who's in here for shoving  
drugs into himself."

"It's dark."

"I got them to change your room.  They had you on suicide watch.  I  
told them I'd watch you.  There's curtains, and no glass wall, and  
the lights turn out."

"I don't remember the wall being glass."

"Well, it was just like TV, so I'm sure you just thought it was  
TRL."

"And the big fucking black guy was Carson Daly."

"See?  You're fine.  Saying stupid shit already."

"I'm hungry."

"I ate your jello.  How come you're the only one who gets red?"

"Because I'm fucking famous and women love me."

"Yeah.  How's the brain doing on that one?"

"Doesn't even bother me, really.  Brit dumps me, it's not the end of  
the world.  I just wanted to not brood about it, and I ended up not  
thinking about it really hard."

"I've had two shrinks, two doctors, and three nurses try to convince  
me you were trying to off yourself."

"I haven't got my shoes back from you, yet, and I'm having them  
buried with me, so, no."

"I'm using them in the garden.  You have feet like skis."

"Brit was this big pylon thing keeping me from falling down.  I  
think sometimes all I have left is her and 'C."

"I know, baby."

"I have, like, ten books on the evils of co-dependency, man."

"You read 'em?"

"No.  Brit did."

"Moral of the story: burn all your books."

"I'm really hungry."

"It's, like, three a.m."

"Feed me and I'll blow you."  He can feel Chris laugh into his hair.    
"I'm serious.  Chicken salad sandwich.  With pineapple.  There's got  
to be somewhere that makes sandwiches in the middle of the night,  
even in Cincinatti."  Chris strokes the back of his neck.  "Come on,  
man, I'm *hungry*."

"Bribe me."

"You missed the part about the blow-job?  Getting senile, yo."

"You know you're gonna blow me on the plane on the way back.  I need  
you to say something to your fucking shrink tomorrow to convince him  
you're sane so we can go home."

"I'm a happy, well-adjusted young adult.  I like girls who don't  
kiss on the first date, my favourite colour is baby blue, and Jesus  
loves me.  Don't forget the pineapple."

  
*

  
"Randall."

"Justin."

"Yes.  Why exactly do you have insurance that's not in your name?"

"It's in my name.  It's just in this one too.  I only carry one set  
of ID at a time.  So I can, you know, check into hotels and not get  
mobbed and shit.  With fans.  And press."

"What if I were to make a statement to the press about your presence  
here?"

. . .

"Shhh.  I'm sorry.  OK, I think we've found one of your triggers.    
Justin, come on.  Get up."

. . .

"Damn."

  
*

  
"I'm going to see you lose your license for this.  I don't believe  
you're a doctor.  You're just a vicious little shit fucking with his  
head."

"There's no need for profanity, Mr Kirkpatrick."

"Other than your patient being curled up in a corner sucking on his  
fingers and not talking to you."

"I think you might finally believe me when I tell you he's  
unstable."

"He's not perfect.  He has a shrink at home."

"He tried to kill himself."

"Jup, come on.  C'mere."  And it really is more comfortable with his  
head on Chris' shoulder.  Chris stays between him and the Spider-  
shrink from Hell.  "He O.D.'ed.  Stars are *supposed* to do that."

"Stars die."

"Yeah, but lots of them don't.  The Rolling Stones are older than  
shit, but they're all still walking around."

"Except Brian Jones, who's very, very dead."

"I don't think he did it on purpose.  He just isn't careful.  One of  
us is usually there watching him."  Chris hugs him, then pulls  
Justin back to rest against his chest, braces him with legs on  
either side.  "Look, for the record, he scared the shit out of me,  
and I know he's pretty much at his worst right now.  But I think if  
he was going to off himself he'd do it way more spectacularly.    
Like, on live TV or something."

Justin twitches.  "Fuck you."

"See?  You are there."

"Fucker wants to tell the press."

"He won't.  You could sue him."

"Why haven't you got me out of here?"

"'Cause I'm bad at the bureaucracy shit."

"What about Lance?  Make him help."

"Lance is in Russia, remember?"

Together, Justin laughing, "Laaaaaaaance iiiiiin Spaaaaaace!"

Resignedly, in a voice Justin's sure he wasn't supposed to hear,  
"You two are both freaks."

"You're just jealous that no one loves you this much."

  
*

  
"Answer the question and I'll sign you over to the care of your  
Orlando therapist."

"I didn't.  I shouldn't have mixed heroin and booze, and I should  
just say no to drugs."

"Why?"

"Because Nancy Reagan told me to?  I'm pretty sure I remember that  
from, like, early childhood."

"Why did you try to kill yourself?"

"I got very drunk with some guys I know from the Strings tour, in a  
club.  Because I broke up with my girlfriend."

"See?  Progress."

"I'm not going to kill myself over her.  It just kinda made a  
shitstorm I didn't want to deal with.  So I took off for a bit."

"Tell me about the 'shitstorm.'"

"My publicist, her publicist, two new publicists, my manager, my  
label, their people, their other people, random fetchits, and  
reporters on my fucking lawn."

"You're not used to this."

"I've been famous since I was, like, eleven."

"Well, don't take this personally, but I don't know who you are.    
Other than a vague recollection of a couple of jokes on The  
Simpsons, and something about a virtual shopping spree on Yahoo."

"With Brit."

"Yes.  Bizarre the things children will believe in."

"I had fun doing it."

"... that was real?"

"Which one of us isn't sure what's fantasy?"

Pause.  Then this long-suffering sigh like Justin's made him hurt.    
"I'll call your therapist."

  
*

  
He goes to sleep alone, but he wakes up in the night when Chris  
crawls into bed behind him and touches chocolate to his mouth.  "I  
talked to Janet this afternoon.  She chewed that guy's ear off.    
You're gonna remember to be real grateful to her, right?"

Body-warm, soft, milk chocolate, cheap and too sweet and  
unbelievably good.  Chris doesn't make him talk while he feeds it to  
him.  One melting square at a time.  Justin licks the remains off  
Chris' fingers.  Licks his palm and butts his head against it.

"I wanna go home."

"It's snowing."

"Yeah.  I wanna go home."

"Remember when it froze in Orlando and all your flowers died?"

"It sucked.  I still want to go home."

"Janet has to fly up here.  You're paying for that, by the way.    
They're releasing you into her care, officially."

Fuck.  He can feel his stomach twist up.  "How officially?"

"Like, for the hospital's paperwork.  As far as Johnny can tell,  
nobody knows you're here but me and him and Janet."  Chris' fingers  
rub into his stomach.  "Try not to puke, okay?  It's still a  
secret."

Quiet, dark warmth.  He has no idea what time it is.  "I owe you a  
blowjob."

"Yeah.  Later."

"When we were shooting 'I Drive Myself Crazy' you used to push me  
into corners and tell me how much you wanted to fuck me up against  
the rubber walls."

"The real version of crazy isn't as sexy as the pretend one."

Chris doubles up exactly the way he should when Justin elbows him in  
the ribs and gets to his feet.  There are curtains pulled closed  
around the bed that he doesn't look for an opening in, just pushes  
against until they give.  Dark room with shaded windows, light from  
under the door.  He finds the other door by touch and shuts himself  
in the bathroom.  There's no lock.

He strips, scrubs himself down as best he can with a couple of  
shitty washcloths and a hand towel.  Runs his fingers along his  
scalp.  Sometime that feels like a long time ago, he took a shower  
in this big, medical room, while he was too tired to stay standing.    
He sat on the floor while water fell on him.

He looks like shit.  Like the National Enquirer should put him on  
the front page.

Behind him, Chris kisses his back.  Cold air from outside the  
bathroom hits his ass and he shudders.  "Make it home and I'll fuck  
you.  In a bed that doesn't mechanically adjust itself every time  
one of us shifts.  The imaginary bedsores aren't sexy."

"I need a shower."

"You really do.  Put that on the list before the monkey sex."

"Jacuzzi."

"That steam-room shower you have in your basement."

"Pool.  No, fuck.  Too much chlorine.  Lance's pool."

"You need a clawfoot bathtub."

"I'll buy one.  But I'll make you lie in it like in 'The Bridges of  
Madison County,' and you're gonna find out why mostly people do that  
with girls to lean against."

"Het love thrives in bathtubs?"

"Guys are boney."

"There will be invalid pillows.  I will make you sit on them while I  
lounge on top of you."

"Which one of us is sick?"

"I had the flu when your asshole doctor called, thank you for  
asking."

  
*

  
The answering service says, "You have -- eighty-four -- new.  
messages."

He wonders whether he can pay someone else to listen to them.

Four are from his lawyer.  Two are from Britney, who promises not to  
sue him anymore if he'll just crawl out of his hidey-hole.  Ten from  
his publicist.  One from Johnny.  Fifteen from JC, who loses track  
of his own anxiety in mid-sentence.  One from Lance, who sounds very  
far away.  Five from Joey.  Two from his mom.  One from his dad.    
Twenty-six from reporters who've found out his phone number, proving  
that it's time to change it again.  Four people want to sell him  
something encouragingly normal, like furnace cleaning or long-  
distance service.  Seven messages from Chris.  Two from Janet's  
secretary about his missed appointments.  One from Janet, because  
she's the bestest shrink ever, and she never, ever wears pink.  One  
from the insurance people, who want to know if anyone's aware that  
Justin's in the hospital under a pseudonym.  One from Wade, who  
wants to know whether Justin wants to do something on Tuesday.

The first message, the oldest one, is from himself.  He's drunk and  
swearing and he doesn't make very much sense.

  
*

  
Spider-shrink's eyes are both black and his nose is still swollen  
from when Chris hit him.  He pats Justin on the shoulder and hands  
him a very large prescription.  

Outside, Janet says "Don't."

"Don't take them?"

"Don't take *anything* until I talk to you.  Not even Tylenol.  Clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

She's used to him crawling over Chris, enough that she doesn't watch  
him from the cab't front seat when he settles against Chris' shoulder.    
Can't remember the last time he was in a cab this shitty.  His stuff  
in a shopping bag, Chris' overnight bag, Janet's briefcase.  Nothing  
worth checking at the airport.  Just an hour in a security line with  
his head down and Chris rubbing his shoulders.

The radio newscaster is talking about Lance.  The guys behind them are  
talking about a new PS2 game.  Justin thinks maybe he needs to buy a  
copy.

  
*

  
He looks up and Janet's leaning over him.  "I told you not to take  
anything."

"I didn't.  Chris did.  And now he's kinda out of it.  Couple of  
drinks on top of the Dramamine."

"He doesn't know better by now?"

"He always does this.  He's, like, no fun to fly with."

"So why are you bouncing?"

"Four cokes in an hour an a half."

In Chris' bag, there's the necessary discman and a couple of dozen  
CDs.  Chris's shit, not his, but it'll do.  Chris is on a New Wave  
kick, that he claims is Justin's fault.  Because Justin's thing for  
Kevin Smith movies led to a thing for John Hughes movies.  Justin was  
four and Chris was being a teenager when they made "The Breakfast  
Club."  Justin remembers waking up to Simple Minds blaring through his  
house.

"Try to relax.  No more caffeine for you."

"Sit fucking *still*."  Chris turns over and burrows into Justin's  
shoulder.

He works on sitting still.  Pretends there's a camera on him, this  
long, stretched-out second where he needs to freeze.  After an hour,  
he can feel the pain stretching out from his neck down his spine.    
Later, when he moves, it'll flare and he'll be down, but as long as  
he's still, it holds off.

  
*

  
And later, in the half-dark of his bedroom, spread out on the bed on  
his stomach while Chris swears at him softly.  He can feel the outside  
heat sliding between the venetial slats.  The air conditioning's off.    
Somewhere high up, the ceiling fan's moving, making the air slide over  
him.

"You weren't supposed to fucking cripple yourself."

Chris moves differently when he hasn't got shoes on.  He's fast and  
cranky from his hangover and he worked it out bouncing around like  
Justin wanted to before he locked up every muscle in his back.  It's  
only when he's finished twitching that he digs out the robaxicet and  
rubs Justin down.  More drugs, but the double-punch of muscle  
relaxants and codeine feels so fucking good, and Justin wonders  
whether he'd have been better off just staying home and enjoying the  
blankness of prescription meds.

He rolls over later, when the sun's going down, and Chris is sitting  
up beside him with a comic open on his lap.  The angry, castrated male  
chimp named Jennifer bites Death viciously on the hand.  Chris snorts  
and flips the page.

Justin says, "You should get up and feed me."

"Yeah, I'm not doing that."

"I'll pay you."

"Fine.  I want your car."

"It's yours."

"And half your shoes."

"You have fucking tiny feet."

"You have skis.  I'll order us pizza."

So.  Justin's padding downstairs towards the door before he realizes  
that it doesn't hurt anymore.  He's blank around the edges from the  
codeine, and he sort of remembers waking up periodically and saying  
meaningless things to Chris, who ignored him.  But.  Hot, bright air  
hits him in the face when he opens the door, and the pizza guy pulls a  
face when Justin signs the credit card slip.  Fucking boybands.

He spends hours spread out on his bed, eating pizza, watching Chris,  
not talking.

  
*

  
And sometime in the night he wakes up.  It doesn't hurt and nothing's  
blurring around the edges.  It's a good sign.  It means he probably  
won't end up in A.A. meetings, driving around with the Benz's bumper  
coated in glitter bumper-stickers that say 'Easy Does It.'

It's cold outside.  It's still winter, but it's a Floridian one, which  
means there are orchids in full bloom all around the house.  The  
pool's clean and heated, and it isn't steaming.

Swimming feels good.  He's not naked because there are always eyes in  
the bushes, but no one ambushes him at least.  When he shakes like a  
dog after, the worst aches from his body fly off.  There are insects  
all over the water.

He makes himself soup in the kitchen, sits down at the table and eats  
it like a normal person.  Naked and staring occasionally at his  
soaking-wet boxers on the floor, but not insane.  The bowl and pot go  
in the dishwasher; the boxers fly down the basement stairs in the  
vague direction of the washing machine.  Justin pads upstairs and  
crouches over Chris asleep on the bed.  He stares at him from three  
inches away until Chris wakes.

"Fuck!  What?"

"Fuck me."

Chris is shaking.  Justin remembers what it's like to wake that way,  
if only because Chris has done it to him hundreds of times.  Sometimes  
he does it just to borrow something that's lying around anyway.

"You look better."

"I feel really good.  Pretty close to happy.  Sex now?"

"Fuck.  Sure."

Occasionally, it's this easy.  Justin on his side and Chris behind  
him, biting at his shoulder and talking about shit like the new  
Witchblade and the records he picked up during the hours he went  
walkabout in Cincinatti.  Not even really touching, because Justin's  
got his fingers laced through Chris'.

Eventually, fingers in him.  Chris still likes to kiss all the way  
through sex, and he's almost enough of a contortionist to make it  
work.  He drops kisses everywhere, and he pulls faces when Justin  
looks at him.  He rakes his toes through the hair on Justin's legs,  
makes it clear exactly how mutt-and-jeff he feels fucking somebody a  
full head taller than him, and then does it anyway.  Slow, slick cock  
in Justin's ass, making him relax so he can take it.  The arm under  
his neck reaches down along his arm and strokes it.  

Like his first mixed drink.  Joey used to order him Fuzzy Navels,  
because they could pass as orange juice to anyone looking.  Sweet and  
slow and burning after it hit him.  Wet and sweet all over.

Justin pulls away, eventually.  Rolls onto his back and pulls Chris up  
on top of him, finishes it the way he remembers from when he was young  
enough to be scared by this.  Legs around Chris' waist, kissing him  
occasionally.  Spread out afterward, arching while Chris jerks him  
off.

Chris lets him go, after.  Justin curls around himself.  It's not  
morning yet, not even light, but there are so many lamps around his  
house that it never gets dark, really.  He could go swimming again if  
he wanted.

He does, eventually.  Naked, this time, because the darkest hour is  
when the paparazzi go off to their buggy little beds and he can walk  
without clothes in his own back yard.

For a second, looking at the pool, he thinks he could walk on water  
and not drown.


End file.
